Page 16 of A Cozy Kind of Christmas
She shook off the thought as they arrived.
Mom’s house was a stunner—a three-thousand-square-foot sprawling one-level modern design in Frank Lloyd Wright stylewith a wall of windows on the backside that offered views of the river as far as Meg’s eye could see. Mom’s furniture was an extension of her refined taste, with creamy leather couches that looked as if they were straight from the showroom, slate gray walls, and a collection of carefully curated holiday decorations.
Her tree stood like a piece of art she’d borrowed straight from an influencer’s social media—silver and eggplant ornaments, satin ribbons tied neatly on each branch, and a rhinestone star mounted on the top.
Meg thought about the differences between Mom’s and Gam’s spaces. Gam’s condo was always cluttered in the best way, with her handmade pottery and drums, houseplants in every corner, and the smell of her cinnamon bread. Mom preferred everything in order and in its place, from her Christmas decorations to the tidy, labeled flour and sugar canisters on the island.
Meg was a mix of both of them. The thought brought her comfort as she kicked off her shoes and noticed that a collection of her grade school Santa pictures had made the cut. They lined the mantel, blending in with the expensive crystal goblets and pewter vases.
“Drinks, ladies?” Mom asked, moving into the open-concept kitchen with pristine white countertops and sleek appliances, which Meg highly doubted got much—if any—use. Hopefully, Kyle was a cook. Meg had to remember to ask at dinner later.
Mom barely knew how to operate the microwave, which was funny given that she’d grown up with Gam—canning boysenberry jam in the summer and baking trays and trays of assorted Christmas cookies for the neighborhood every December. There was never a moment when Gam’s kitchen wasn’t filled with the delightful aroma of fresh bread or a savory stew.
Mom purchased “fresh from the freezer” dinners and equated cooking with warming up soup on the stove. She was her generation’s version of “girl dinner” before “girl dinner” was a thing. Most nights, she sipped champagne and nibbled on wafer crackers and expensive cheese.
Another combo Meg had inherited from them.
“Champagne?” Mom ran her hand over a chilled bottle of bubbly, not waiting for their response before popping it open with the nimble deftness of a practiced sommelier.
“What are we celebrating?” Meg asked.
“You! Your return. Your success.” Mom waved a flawlessly manicured hand over a stack ofNew York Timespapers on the center island. “Honey, you did it. You realized a dream, and everyone is talking about what a wonderful piece it is.” She pressed her hand to her throat and blinked hard, as if she were fighting off tears. “Myself included, Meg. It’s a beautifully haunting piece. Your best work, by far.”
Gam nodded proudly as Mom handed her a fluted glass with pale pink bubbling champagne. “You wrote from your most authentic self. That comes through on the page. Well done, you!”
Meg forced a smile. “Maybe. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for the feature, and the paycheck was nice, but I guess I never imagined I’d be writing about the fallout with Pops. It’s not the story I wanted to write, but it’s the story Ihadto write, if that makes sense.”
“That’s what resonates with your writing,” Gam said, raising a glass. “Your vulnerability comes through. I don’t think many of us are really seeking perfection, are we? We’re seeking understanding and connection. When you write something that’s so authentic, and your heart is centered on that, it becomes transcendent, almost universal. Suddenly, we can all see ourselves in your story. That’s a gift—a talent.”
“Thanks.” Meg took a glass from Mom, a tight swell gripping her chest. Gratitude, grief, all of it.
“It’s pink.” Mom raised an arched brow with a teasing smile. “For our girl.”
“I’m going to be thirty in three months. I’m hardly a girl anymore,” Meg said, feeling the swell of emotion tighten its grasp. Her girlhood was long over, but being here with Mom and Gam made her nostalgic for easier days when her biggest cares were ruining her hair with pink Jell-O instead of ruining the one real chance she’d had at love.
Mom’s smile faltered just a bit. “You’ll always be our girl, won’t she?” Her voice caught as she glanced at Gam.
Gam’s smile was warm and sincere. “Our growing, evolving girl who has matured into such a wonderful young woman. Yes, I say, a toast to that.”
They clinked their glasses together.
Mom grabbed the bottle of champagne and moved toward the living room. “Shall we go sit by the fire?”
A deck stretched the length of the house, enclosed by a clear glass fence that gave the impression that nothing would stop you from falling two stories below to the raging river. Heat blazed from a faux-stone fireplace surrounded by a group of leather chairs.
“Fill us in. What’s your plan now that you’re a famousNew York Timeswriter?” Mom asked, patting the seat next to her. There was the faintest hint of familiar prodding that Meg tried to ignore, mainly because she was desperate for answers herself.
“Mom, I hate to break it to you, but I’m far from a famous writer,” Meg said, watching a boat decked out with Christmas lights navigate the choppy river. “I’m not aNew York Timeswriter. You get that, right? I wrote one freelance feature for them. I’m still an extreme sports reporter. That’s the gig.” She sighed heavily. “At least for now.”
“Honey, don’t sell yourself short. Any feature in theNew York Timesis big. It could be a jumping-off point for something more. I worry about you—the constant travel and your tiny apartment. ESPN does not pay you enough.” She scoffed and looked at Gam for support.
Gam smiled softly. “Of course, we’re biased, but I agree. You’re a valuable asset to any organization.”
Mom nodded. “Maybe this could be an opportunity to put down some more permanent roots?” Her tone was light but threaded with something more. “The New York Timespiece will surely help you secure more work.” She tucked her scarf into place.
Meg fought the urge to bury her head in the beaded purple throw pillow. She agreed, but it wasn’t that easy to venture out on her own.
“There’s a real opportunity here to finally write what you want to write,” Mom pressed.
